


To Love Your Enemy

by Deliverer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12379842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deliverer/pseuds/Deliverer
Summary: He is a King and mage of power, a leader of his people.  He is also an Tercal, a secret he has kept for all of his life.  It seems he has managed to survive it, to need no one, until he meets the leader of his enemies for the first time, and finds that all of his precautions have failed him.This story is loosely based on a fanfic I did in a particular fandom but it is being substantially rewritten for this project, which I hope one day to complete and release as an ebook.  This will be an 'original' world fiction based on my own world-building.





	1. Forward

It was at the end of reign of King Tyranus, during the last days of the Great War of the Wyres, that the first Primal and Tercal appeared.

While research has provided no definitive source relating to how they came into existence, some evidence exists that a powerful Life Wyre was attempting to merge aspects of humanity with a beast, likely a wolf, to create a superior fighting creature.  It may be that somehow the magic transmuted and its effects were absorbed by a number of newborns, who later emerged as the first Primals and Tercals in existence.

Their numbers were few and have always been so, since that time.  It is perhaps fortunate that male Tercals are even rarer, since their lives have been even more problematic than females burdened with that most strange and fascinating mutation…

_A Study of the Primal and the Tercal by Andronus of Stade_


	2. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is easy to love your friend, but sometimes the hardest lesson to learn is to love your enemy."  
> Sun Tzu, The Art of War

He lifted the crystal glass and turned it, slowly.  Faceted light reflected in rainbow patterns, and the dirty marks around the inner rim showed clear amidst the gleam.

Auster of Highreach, King of the Tenarthi, held the glass out away from himself and lifted his gaze to stare at the waiting servitor.  One pale eyebrow tilted upwards, though his expression hardly changed.  The servitor bowed and took the glass.

"Apologies, sire.  I will have a clean glass provided to you."

He nodded, wordless and looked away as the man left.

"I love how you do that."

Auster glanced sideways.  "What?"

"Command without a word.  Do all your servants read you like that one?"

"They do if they wish to continue in my service."  He sighed and fanned himself languidly with a finely made fan.  His companion sat back and signalled to another servitor.

"I thought it would be cooler out here.  I forgot how hot it gets in Dursamar in the summer."

The balcony was shaded from the harsh sun that filtered through potted palms and curtains of fine Tenarthi cloth, but out beyond it the day was a golden glare of sun reflecting off windows and making the air shimmer.  Auster had changed from his normal robes to lighter silks but even then, shaded and comfortably clothed, he could still feel the sweat prickle his skin.  The Tenarthi lived in the hills and mountains of Tenarth where the summers were milder and the air almost always cool.  Dursamar was set on river plains on the edger of the desert.  Even though high summer was weeks away it was hotter than the Tenarthi were accustomed to.  Or that they liked.

Cloth rustled, the chair next to him creaked and he turned to see his cousin Terril settling onto the brocade cushion.  Terril was immaculately clothed and neat as usual, his long, powerful fingers wafting an ivory-and-silk fan before his face.  "I abhor humidity, have I mentioned that lately?"

"Once or twice."  Auster took a sip of his apple cider.  "You're a Weather Wyre.  Do something about it."

The tall, elegant man snorted, holding out a crystal goblet to be filled by a waiting servitor.  "If you want a sudden, violent thunderstorm hereabouts, that I can provide.  Changing climates is beyond even my skills."  He glanced sideways at Auster, eyelids lowered.  "I'd have thought this weather would more suit a Flame Wyre.  You do look rather flushed."

"Hot is what I am."  Auster endeavoured to ignore the inner flush that made his skin twitch.  "And fed up with this whole procedure.  It's giving me a headache."

"Well," said Terril, bending forward to touch the crystal pitcher, "I can do nothing about your head, but perhaps this will help."

The long fingers stroked the glass pitcher as the older man's eyelids dropped and he whispered a phrase.  There was a sudden sense of cool, as if for a moment winter had appeared in that small space.  Frost formed on the rim of the pitcher and there was a crackling sound as ice chunks materialized within the apple cider.  He nodded, satisfied, and leant back.  "There you are, my King, courtesy of your Weather Wyre cousin."

In fact, Auster had been punished by a headache since waking, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.  It thumped at his temples, forcing him to lower his second eyelids to mute the bright sunlight.  Even then it took a powerful act of will not to leap up and hurry inside.  Doing that would call attention to his discomfit; the four nobles sitting with him had one thing in common – they were very bright.  They watched him like hawks, playing the game of court intrigue intuitively, and a lifetime of doing it had honed their instincts.  It took all his control to show none of his pain and strain, to clothe himself in calm as he had since attaining adulthood and his crown.

 _Keep the Secret._   It was a familiar invocation.  For ten years, since the day the secret was revealed to him, he had spent much of his free time working at ways to save himself from being what he was.  He treated his state as a condition, as an illness that needed to be cured. 

Auster watched as Terril poured icy cider into his glass.  "Thank you, clever coz."  He sipped the cool liquid, sighed and was about to ask for more when he heard a disturbance growing in the street below.  He paused and turned his head, eyes narrowing as he saw the cause.

Terril leant forward, resting his arms on the balcony railing.  "Well, it seems they have arrived, in all their barbaric, loathsome glory."

The pedestrians and road traffic moved to side – or were shoved aside – as the mounted party moved along the street.  They didn’t need to announce themselves and although one of the forward group of riders was a banner bearer, anyone with eyes and a working brain could recognise the Kamen.

They rode horses of a breed called Clubs, huge beasts with stocky, square heads, hooves as big as plates and as nasty a nature as their riders.  Their size was deliberate; the Kamen were a large people, with few adult men being under six feet tall and even their women towered over other races.  And of all the Kamen, the largest and most powerful was Caled Ironhorn, Lord of the Kamen.

Auster knew the Kamen-Are by reputation, of course, but they had never met before since the Kamen Lord tended to stay relatively close to home.  At least, when he wasn’t off warring somewhere.  This meeting had been arranged to try and arrange a truce along their mutual border.  While Auster didn’t believe there was all that much chance of it happening, he needed to try.  The constant fighting and smaller battles were bleeding his treasury dry.  Keeping an armed force on constant watch along a large front was costly in both gold and lives.  The problem was, of course, that the Kamen loved to fight.  Asking them to stop was rather like asking the sun to stay still in the sky. 

As the group of a dozen Kamen riders reached the Embassy and the balcony where Auster and his party were watching, Caled Ironhorn glanced upwards and his eyes casually passed over the watching Tenarthi.  It was only when he saw Auster and their eyes locked that the world changed.

Because Caled Ironhorn was a Primal, and the power of his Primacy blew through Auster's suppressant like a storm through paper.

The glass he was holding slid through suddenly lax fingers to shatter on the stone.

Auster shuddered and pushed himself backwards away from the railing, dragging himself from those suddenly intent amber eyes and he turned, stumbling for the door.  He heard alarmed voices through the buzzing in his ears, muttered something about a headache and moved inside with as much control as he could dredge up.  Which was very little.  He wanted to scream, to rage at the unfairness of the cosmos but it was an old curse that had only, in that moment, gained a completely new aspect.  For he would have to sit in that loathsome, powerful presence for hours, possibly days and not give himself away.

How he could manage to do that, he had no idea…

 


	3. Part Two

Kamen armor was not normally elaborate.  Functionality was more important than appearance; it should be easy to repair in the field and lightweight to allow for speed.  Their bulk and endurance gave them stamina and their armor was designed to deflect and protect without interfering with movement.  Ceremonial armor, on the other hand, was made more for appearance than functionality. 

He studied his reflection in the full-length mirror and snorted.  _Very pretty.  All it needs is feathers and trim and I could do a dance._ Caled rarely wore his honor armor since formal ceremonies were something he detested.  Then again, nothing he wore would please those elegant aesthetics, the Tenarthi.  _But do I give a fuck about pleasing them?  Not even a little…_

Perhaps not but still, he was who he was.  He represented his people and there was a matter of his own self-interest as well.  He would look like what he was, the leader of the Kamen, and not just some sellsword.  His people would expect nothing less.

His body servant buckled up the multiple straps, adjusting them for comfort and making sure each was undamaged and secure.  Even though the gear was ceremonial it was still there for protection and no body servant worth their pay would overlook such care.  The Kamen were always ready for battle, even when the likelihood of a fight was slight.

The thick bear leather strapping was braced with decorated iron set with aquamarines and emeralds.  His chest-and-backpieces were worked with the sigil of his house, the snarling wolf head, side on, eyes made up of emeralds.  The crossbelts would normally bear his two long daggers but the sheaths were empty, by agreement, and his two-hander, Dominion, was sheathed and sitting on the bed.

He lifted a foot to allow the high boots to be fitted.  They were lined with black wolf fur that trailed out over the tops above the ankle-to-knee strapping.  He waved away the gauntlets but held out his arms, one after the other, for the bracers and gold upper arm bracelets.  The only other decoration he wore was the thumb ring on his left hand, his signet of leadership, a ring handed down over a dozen generations, Kamen-Are to Kamen-Are.

"Something's missing."

He glanced up as he checked the bracer ties.  "What?"

His brother was sprawled in an armchair with his feet up on the bed.  "Perfume, perhaps?  Or some ribbons through your braids?  I'm not sure.. you look so…pretty…."

Caled lifted a foot and kicked the chair and his brother rolled backwards, bouncing upright.  "Take care, you'll mess up my hair."

"Hmmph.  I hope you appreciate all this."  He tossed a long braid over his shoulder and turned to the mirror on the dresser.  "Having to parade like a peacock; it's all probably a waste of my time anyhow."  Caled adjusted his belt, tightening the buckle, still unbalanced at the lack of weapons.  "Hunting rabbits would be a more profitable use of my time."

"I like to think I'm the political thinker in the family," Malek drawled, as he took a cloak from across the back of a nearby chair.  "I actually **want** to meet with them, I want to see how they think, how they react, what their responses are."  He turned Caled around and clipped the cloak to his brother's shoulderguards.  "As for hunting - it's what we're doing.  It's like how father taught us to track game.  The Way of the Prey is all about that, about how the prey moves, its habits, its weaknesses and strengths.  I can learn that by observing them.  Ignorance," he finished, slapping Caled's shoulders, "leads to weakness, as my old Arms Master would – and frequently did – say."

Caled knew that as well as Malek did but he didn’t begrudge the words.  Only a fool snubbed his advisor's honest input.  Malek took a bottle from the dresser and poured a tankard full.  "And did you see that one at the front of the group of the balcony, when we rode by?"  He swallowed the ale, wiping the froth from his lips.  "That has to be their King.  Reports on his looks weren't exaggerated."

Caled didn’t respond beyond a sound that could be read as either agreement or disinterest.  In fact, the image of the Tenarthi king was very clear in his memory, along with the brief sensation as powerful as it was undeniable.  How the sense of a Tercal in early Heat had come from him Caled didn’t know or understand, but he'd been sure of it.  He had to know more.  _To pursue and take Auster of Highreach.  That would be the hunt to end all hunts._

The two men walked downstairs, hearing familiar voices as he reached the ground floor.  His guard troop were waiting by the main door and their leader, Shaz, turned to him as he entered, moving a hand towards her chest in salute, and then pausing.  A smile grew on her weathered, scared face.

"Good gods!"

Caled snorted.  "Don't you start."

Her smile widened as she bowed.  "Wouldn’t think of it, my Lord."

He watched her study him with a familiar intent.  They'd met when he, as a cocky twelve year old, had laughed at the idea of a ten-year-old girl wanting to train as a warrior.  After she'd kicked his legs from under him and trod on his balls, he changed his tune.  They'd been friends since that day; she was a cunning, vicious fighter, loyal beyond thought, and the leader of his personal guard troop.  Not many people laughed at Shaz anymore, not he'd heard tell of, anyway.  "The troop won't be able to come into the conference rooms, Shaz."

"I know.  Happens there's a tavern across the street.  We can wait there for you."

He knew he didn’t need to mention the obvious; none of his personal guard would get drunk on duty.  They'd be drinking iced tea or juice and behaving themselves in readiness for his appearance.  Their own code would ensure that, along with being under Shaz's watchful eye.

"Good, let's go.  We shouldn't be late for the entertainment."

The heat hit Caled as he stepped outside, along with the noise and smell.  The heat was an old friend and the smell wasn’t too bad; Dursamar was a well-maintained city with proper sewer piping and workers hired to keep the public areas clean.  It was more the smell of what Caled thought of as the city's wealth – the mass of people, the stinks of animal droppings, from the taverns and eateries of food cooking and drink being consumed.  And the trade, of course.

His guards formed a wedge of protection around him as he moved down the street, working through the pedestrians and moving or pushing them aside.  Sometimes they had to give way.  When a Dursamari caravan came along it was necessary to step back and let it pass.  The wagons were full of sacks that gave off the rich odours of the spices the area was famous for, and the mounted guards in their bright Dursamari robes looked down – actually and figuratively – on Caled's party.

Dursamar's buildings were uniformly square and squat, rarely above two stories and made of bricks overlaid with clay that was painted white to reflect the sun.  Every door and window frame was decorated with intricate symbols, apparently an old custom to keep out evil spirits.  There were a few high towers with conical tops, both for military purposes and to keep watch for the severe sandstorms that came out of the desert now and then.  Streets were lined with palms, courtyards were tiled and often filled with small gardens and fountains.  It was an attractive, comfortable city for such a harsh climate.

They walked past a side street and Caled heard loud voices; a barge captain was arguing with a city customs officer while his crew stood around listening and contributing.  Traders called out their wears from shade-covered stalls beside the buildings and children ran to school.  It was a typical busy morning in a wealthy trading hub.

They crossed a bridge over one of the main rivers that led to the Palace, a sprawling building that past Kings had added to, creating a complex maze of wings and courtyards on a terraced hillside.  A guide supplied by the Court waited beside the main guard post and bowed at Caled's approach.

"My Lord Kamen-Are, I am here to escort you within."

Caled nodded and spoke to Shaz without turning.  "This shouldn’t take long.  My brother Malek," he said to the guide, "is my advisor.   I believe we are only permitted one companion."

The guide bowed again.  "That is correct.  Sir, you will both be required to submit to a search for weapons.  I'm sure you know the rules," he said, smiling, "but it's a condition of all such meetings and the Tenarthi are required to wear bracers that restrict their magical abilities, and these are checked as well."

Caled didn’t much care for it, but he stood still for the brief, thorough inspection. Malek wasn't quite so relaxed.  "If you keep putting your hands there, goodman, I'll assume you are thinking of asking for my personal services – and yes, we really are as big as people say we are…"

Caled laid a hand on his brother's arm to control him.  For all his undoubted smarts, Malek's patience with such things was short.  The big man huffed in annoyance but stayed still until the inspection was complete, and they were both escorted inside.

"Did they think you had a dagger secreted up your ass?" Malek muttered as they walked into the cool, tiled foyer. 

"With some types, it's quite possible.  Desert Menangi have been known to stow small daggers in pouches worked in their skins or have poison spikes in false teeth."  _Then again, Menangi are a bit crazed, probably too much sun…_

The two men followed the guide upstairs to the second level, then further into the building before taking more stairs to the third level.  The building was a maze and Caled had made certain of memorizing the way; he didn’t care to be lost in a strange building without weaponry beside that which nature had provided him.

They walked up stairs and along corridors that seemed to have no logic and turned back and around as if to confuse, until they finally arrived at their destination.  The meeting room was large and decorated in the style of the city, with high curtained windows and tiled floors. Guards stood watch at the entries and spaced along the walls – presumably on the off-chance that one or the other of the parties leapt over the table and attacked the other with their bare hands.  An elderly robed man sat waiting; he watched the Kamen warriors approach and stood, bowing.

"My Lord, welcome to Dursamar.  I am Tormen Var, your Facilitator.  We are honoured to be hosting you for this auspicious meeting."  He indicated two chairs at one end of the table with a wave of his hand.  "If you would be seated, the servants will provide you with cool juices to quench your thirst."

Caled slumped into the chair and rested his elbows on the table.  "The Tenarthi not here yet?"

"On the way, sir, so I am told."  Var signalled a servant forward.  "If there is any way I can help you, please do not hesitate to ask."

Caled didn’t answer and he waved away the glass offered to him.  Leaning back, he crossed his arms over his chest, wondering if the delay was deliberate.  They were such deep players, the Tenarthi, so much for plotting and planning, and trickery and misdirection.  Probably all part of being wyre, he thought.  He'd take a good sword or axe over a spell any day.  That was an honest sort of fight, one on one, betting your life on your skill and strength.  Probably why there were so few Kamen wyres; they weren’t skills sought or taught though there were a few who worked with the Court. 

He heard voices outside the room; a door on the far side was pushed open and two men walked inside, led by an unfamiliar guard.  Caled's eyes narrowed though he didn’t move, even when he recognised who they were. 

The two Tenarthi were immaculately robed although the one in front was a little more richly dressed, and wore a simple gold torc around his throat as a sign of his rank.  Caled's gaze drifted up his body to his face and he looked into the wide, green eyes of the first male Tercal he'd ever seen.

For that was certainly what the King of the Tenarthi was, and not only that – he was a Tercal on the brink of his Heat.  Caled's nostrils flared with anticipation _._   It was going to be a very interesting day…


	4. Part Three

Auster wiped his palms across his pants then lifted them, flexing his stiff fingers.  His palms were pink and he realised he'd been clenching his hands for some time, digging his nails deeply into the skin. He sucked in a shaky breath and straightened his fingers across the top of his thighs.  It took an act of concentration not to clench them again.  Tension rippled through him and his jaws creaked as he fought for control. 

His cousin's rich sarcasm echoed across the room.  "…and I will say this again for at least the fifth time:  if you invade our lands, we will attack you and yours.  Is there a plainer way I can say it?"

He was answered a few moments later by a guttural curse.  "Probably not, but let me explain the way of it to you, again.  They aren’t your lands, they're ours!  How many fucking times do we have to repeat THAT!"

_What was his name?  I cannot…oh yes, Malek…Malek Ironhorn, brother to…Caled..the.._   He tried not to lift his eyes but every time he thought of Caled he had to look up to assure himself that the man was still there, as if it were important that he hadn't moved anywhere.  And that subliminal need for assurance worried Auster more than anything else.

Caled watched him like some predatory beast.  Which he was, by nature and fact.  His amber eyes were set on Auster's face; casual, arrogant, attempting to dominate merely by his presence.  He'd let his brother do most of the talking, just as Auster was letting Terril speak for him.  Not that he could have shut Terril up, as fired and angry as he was.  But it was fortunate he was there because Auster wasn’t sure he could string a coherent sentence together.  Not while the Heat gnawed at his brain, his nerves alight with the pain of restraining it.  Not while the Kamen Lord sat only a small distance away being everything that his perverse Tercal state wanted.

Auster had never experienced a Heat before, at least not since his first which has been during the juvenile onset and so had been more of a warning than a full blast.  Since that time, he'd used the suppressant created for him by a very reliable and trustworthy Life Wyre.  It had always served him well.  _At least, until now_.

He had no idea why the impact of the Kamen Primal had so utterly defeated the suppressant.  Perhaps it was simply that it had stopped working, or was a faulty batch, or his body had become immune to its effects.  Whatever the reason, he was in trouble.  He'd attended this meeting in the hope that he could cope without it.  It proved a futile hope.  The moment he'd entered the room he'd felt the impact of the Primal's silent pull on him.  It was like nothing he'd experienced before.  He _wanted_ to go to the man, throw himself on that big, powerful body.  It was like a thirst that only the Kamen-Are could quench.  It was excruciating.

The words floating around him were lost in the noise being generated in his head.  He shuddered and twitched at the sudden slap of something on the table next to him.  He blinked, turned towards his cousin, saw the flushed face, the flat hand resting on the table top where he'd slammed it down a moment before.  Auster went to speak when the Facilitator tapped the table and stood.

"I believe now would be a good time to break for lunch.  Perhaps we can resume in an hour and tempers will have cooled to allow for more constructive discourse."

Auster pushed himself upright and turned to his cousin, forcing himself to speak in a flat, controlled tone of voice.  "I am going to wash my face and locate a privy, I will not be long."

Terril looked up, eyebrows raised, his expression uncertain.  "Are you well, cousin?  You seem distracted."

"I am fine, I just need to refresh myself.  No, I wish to be alone."  The last thing he wanted was for Terril to see him shaking in stress.  He deliberately avoided looking towards the pair of Kamen at the other side of the table; he turned and headed for the nearest exit at a brisk walk.

A guard pointed him towards the nearest privy.  Even so, the maze of corridors was confusing, and it took only a few minutes to realise he was lost.  At one point he found himself in a dead end and retraced his steps – turned a corner and came face-to-face with Caled.

Auster stopped abruptly, shocked and surprised.  Heart pounding, he studied the big man and realised that his senses were far more intense in that moment than he could ever recall before.   The Kamen Lord seemed to glow with his own light and his size was daunting.  Caled stood with his feet apart, hands on hips, watching Auster from beneath dark brows.  His lips curled up into a half-smile.

"Lost, little king?"  He made no overt, threatening move but the sense of intimidation was still there.

Auster felt his Heat begin to spark feeling throughout his body and he fought it, forcing words out past a dry, constricted throat.  "Get out of my way."

Caled didn’t respond, but he didn’t move either and Auster knew there was no way to get past him without touching him.  He found himself dragging at the metal bands around both wrists, the things that kept his magic smothered and Caled's smile grew.  "Frustrating, isn’t it, to want to reduce me to smouldering ash and not being able to."  And then he stepped forward, just two steps, but the Primal aura pulsed ahead of him, dragging at Auster's senses.  He looked to the side, saw a door and grabbed the handle, pushing it open.  He had no idea where it led but anywhere was better than being in that corridor.  He slid inside and tried to close the door but it was pushed open and he stumbled back, almost tripping as his legs hit objects behind him.

A quick glance showed it was a storeroom with barrels and boxes stacked on the floor against the walls.  There was no other door but the one he'd come through and when he swung around towards the door, it was to find Caled blocking it, facing him.  He backed up and snarled.  "I demand you get out of my way and let me pass."

"I don't think so."  The Kamen moved further inside and pushed the door closed with one backwards kick.  He didn’t take his eyes from Auster's face as his fingers worked at his belt buckle.  "Come here."

Auster snarled, his fingers curled into claws.  There was nowhere to go, he didn’t have the physical strength to overcome a Kamen male of Caled's size and bulk and without his magic he was virtually defenceless.  "You break..the rules of…neutrality…if you attack me here…"

"I have no intention of attacking you.  I have no wish to fight, and neither do you.  Right now you want something else altogether, don't you, Auster of Highreach.  You want me.  And I want you, so that works out for both of us."

Before he could come up with an insult or a rebuttal Auster found that somehow the distance between them had reduced down to nothing.  He wasn’t sure if he'd moved or if Caled had, but it didn’t seem to matter.  He was pressed up against the man's big body as large hands slid beneath his behind and lifted him until their faces were level.  _There is nothing you can do, you cannot get free, he can kill you now, break your neck, snap your back and there is nothing you can do…_ The seconds passed and he continued to live, his heart continued to pound as sweat sheened his body and ran down into his eyes.  His body sang with the pleasure of being so close to the Primal it needed and his Heat exploded into life with such intensity that he nearly passed out.

Auster's first sexual experience on Heat passed mostly in a blur of sensation and flashing images.  He remembered cursing Caled and using language he wasn't even aware he knew, and the Kamen Lord's response was a mixture of amusement and lust, a language he was equally unfamiliar with.  Somehow he ended up half-naked, backed onto a wall, legs up around Caled's hips with the hot, musky scent of Tercal lubricant filling the air.  That seemed to generate a significant arousal in the body holding him so tightly.  Whatever fear he might have felt at the idea of that big rod of flesh nudging him open melted away at the feel of it entering him.  Then it was pure, rutting bliss; being filled, stretched, taken to the edges of sanity where the pain of the thing inside him, of being slapped back against the wall, of blunt finger digging into him, were outweighed by pleasure.  His heart thudded, he groaned as his head was pushed back, at the feeling of a rough beard on his hot neck; a sharp little pain and a tongue licking over the skin above the gland in his throat and perhaps he imagined the whispered _mine…mine…_

But he didn’t imagine the near-oblivion of climax, when his body was filled by a rush of hot seed that enclosed the cycle of his Heat, or that his own orgasm followed shortly afterwards like an electric shock exploding through his groin and flowing outwards with its own feral shout of satisfaction.

When thought returned he was sitting across a pair of solid thighs with his face resting on a muscled chest.  He let himself sit there for a few moments, aware of how good he felt.  Despite a mild soreness down below, despite being ruffled and sticky and sweaty, with all dignity lost…physically he felt better than he could ever remember feeling.  There was no looming threat of a despised Heat.  He felt...sated.

Then Caled grunted and moved and Auster shifted, sliding down to the floor and standing in one quick movement.  He picked up his clothing and wrapped his robe around his nakedness and turned to the door.  He couldn’t think of anything to say – what could be said, after all? – but he turned as he opened the door, looked down into those intent golden eyes and then left, closing the door behind him.

It was only later, when he returned to his rooms after calling an end to the talks, when he remembered the mark on his throat.  The mark the Kamen-Are had made that had both fulfilled, and doomed him.

 


End file.
